Short Stories by U Eliserio

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Saturday, June 11, 2011

1. The nurse always came to him at two in the morning.
Pohl Valerio knew because the nurse told him. "It's two o'clock," the
nurse would always say, "time for your medicine."

Pohl's medicine was a big, bright, blue pill and a
bowl of mashed meat, beef or pork he didn't know. The pill was bitter and the
mashed meat was sour, but two years of cancer had taught Pohl that a bad taste
in the mouth was better than the feeling of his bones breaking inside his
flesh.

The nurse would spoon-feed him, like his mother did. After
he finished the mashed meat, the nurse would hand him the pill and a glass of
water.

Pohl might have thought that the nurse was a
hallucination who always visited him when Pohl's mother couldn't sleep over at
the hospital. But the nurse appeared in the daytime too, and talked to the
doctor and the other nurses, and to Pohl's mother and sister or whoever was
staying with him or visiting him. Still, it was a mystery to Pohl why the nurse
never came when his mother did sleep over.

Most of the time Pohl couldn't speak, mainly because
his throat hurt, but also because he didn't have anything to say. He had been
confined in the hospital for two months now, and he didn't have the strength to
read, or retain whatever thought the television stimulated in his brain. His
mother and sister and his visitors, they talked for hours and hours, and didn't
ask Pohl to talk back. But the nurse, the nurse was always asking him
questions. Mostly inanities, like "How are you?" or "Feeling
good today?" The nurse delivered these questions while feeding Pohl,
smiling all the while, flashing his big choppers, his huge black eyes glinting.

The nurse was a bright light in Pohl's day, and after
eating his meat and tossing the pill down his throat, Pohl always felt better. There
were times when the pain in his bones was so bad Pohl prayed that his mother be
given more work in school, so she wouldn't be able to sleep over, and the nurse
could come with his medicine. These prayers were always answered.

Pohl wanted to talk to the nurse. He saved his
strength, saved his voice. He eavesdropped on the nurse's conversation with the
doctor and the other nurses and Pohl's mother and sister and whoever was visiting
him that day, so he would know what topic of conversation the man was
interested in. But they were always just exchanging pleasantries, talking about
the weather, or traffic. And some goddam thing everybody was calling EDSA 3. Was
it a new road? Was there an EDSA 2 already?

The cancer ate away at his memory, too, he knew, but
what frustrated him no end was that he couldn't even catch the nurse's name. So
finally Pohl decided to just introduce himself.

On the twenty-second day of the third month of his
confinement, Pohl said to the nurse, as soon as the man arrived, before he
could place the tray with the glass of water and the pill and the bowl of
mashed meat on the table beside Pohl's bed, "My name is Pohl."

"Open wide," the nurse said, spooning a hill
of mashed meat from the bowl.

"What is," Pohl said, "what is your
name?"

"Let this one in," the nurse said, "and
I'll tell you."

Pohl swooped down on the spoon. The sour meat made him
salivate. He was feeling particularly strong that day and nodded, so the man
would keep up his end of the bargain.

"My name is JR."

Pohl swallowed. "Because you're a Junior?"

"One more first." It was a mountain of meat
this time.

Pohl did as he was told.

"Actually I was named after a fictional
character. John Rambo. You know, Stallone, First Blood?"

Pohl shook his head. It had taken him more than two
months to notice the nurse's dimples.

"It's just as well. Listen, you have to finish
this quickly today." The bowl was still half full. "I have run into
some problems."

Problems? What problems? "One last request. Please."

The man bit his lower lip. "Very well. What is
it?"

"You," Pohl said, "you have to ask me a
question."

The nurse nodded. "Interesting." He tapped
the bowl with the spoon. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Pohl stared at him. Was this a joke? Was the nurse
mocking him? But he decided that all those days of feeding him were not the
actions of a man of cruelty. He answered, repressing his anger, "I'm
already grown up."

The nurse shook his head. "You're 17. You have
years ahead of you." It was a bright face. The man had a bright face.

"I want to be a doctor. Like my father was."
Pohl sighed. His father had died of lung cancer.

The nurse nodded. He raised the bowl of mashed meat. "Then
a doctor you shall be." Eyes bright, he said, "Soon you will be in
your rightful place."

2. Four years before his recovery, when he still had
pretensions of wanting to be a novelist, four years before he moved from
Journalism to Biology, his mother was always telling him to go to bars. "See
people," she would say, "listen to them. Feel their rhythm, feel them
vibrate in their natural habitat." Eight years after his recovery, twelve
years after his awful first year in college, nine years after his one and only,
and failed, attempt to go to a bar, here he was, a doctor, actually inside a
bar.

Everybody smoked. A couple was kissing by a piano and
the walls were dominated by a series of eye paintings. Dr. Valerio tugged on
his shirt collar. He smelled vomit, hair spray, pineapple. Sometimes he
hated having heightened senses.

He was on a date, with a woman he had gone out with
during high school. They had shared dreams of literary awards and book
launches. She had taken her undergraduate studies abroad and now had a Master
of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. They had reconnected a month ago, via
Friendster. The website that just a few weeks ago announced it was shutting
down. She taught at what she called the "University for the Rich and
Stupid." She had asked him out.

She wore a Che shirt and a Mao hat, and her two front
teeth were as wide apart as Madonna's. When she spoke she also whistled.

Her name was Peñafrancia Purificacion. Friends called
her France.

They sat at a corner table for four, under a three-eye
painting. "So," she shouted (the live band was playing "Bohemian
Rhapsody"), "seen any good patients lately?"

Dr. Valerio smiled and gestured to a waitress. "Do
you have a screw," he said, "a screwdriver?"

The waitress nodded.

"What'll you have?" he asked France.

"Order for me," she said, standing up. "I
have to pee."

"She'll have a," he said to the waitress,
"she'll have a vodka. A bottle of vodka."

"Sir?"

Dr. Valerio's smile faded. "Just a glass,
please." She watched the waitress's behind wiggle away. At the counter, he
saw what looked to be the bar manager grab her chest. He was a thin man, tall,
with long hair, and a goatee that curled at the end.

Dr. Valerio shook his head and looked away. He
reviewed the roads they had taken. They were at the Kamuning Road. All he had
to do was go straight, then right at Anonas, then left into Aurora's traffic. Once
through that it was another straight through Marcos Highway and then right to
whatever street in Marikina her apartment was. He'd open the door for her, walk
her to the gate, and go back to his car. The night had been a disaster since
he’d picked her up at the University. He had seen her smoking with a student.

He hated smokers.

The waitress came back before France did. Dr. Valerio
took a sip of his drink. It tasted like orange. He hated how it was his taste
that hadn’t changed. He could detail the contents of a vomit by smell, see
sixteen different shades of purple, listen to whispers shared by the couple by
the piano, but he couldn’t tell the difference between oranges and lemons. His
sense of touch was even worse. To him, everything felt rough.

He had never actually drunk a screwdriver before. He
had learned of it in an episode of Frasier and had sworn that if ever
someone asked him what he’d like to drink, it was what he would order. The only
thing he’d ever drunk was red wine. He took another sip. It wasn't so bad. He
tried to remember what twist of fate had brought him to this hellmouth. He
recalled being excited when he saw her invitation to be a friend. And his heart
had raced the first time they ymed. But he should have known through her
Multiply page that she wasn't his type (and that he wasn't hers!). Her blog had
been filled with photos of cats and video clips from French and Italian films,
and her reviews were absolutely cruel. She made fun of local stars (Sarah
Geronimo was a frequent target, especially her gloves), of other writers
(the names of whom Dr. Valerio didn't recognize, he just knew they were
Filipino because their works had been published by UST and, um, Ateneo), of
politicians (another sore point, Dr. Valerio hated politics), and most of all
of nurses.

But his mother was always asking him about his love
life, always telling him that with his sister dead he was her only hope for a
grandchild. So when France asked him out, he thought, why the hell not? It
wasn’t like she was going to get him killed or anything, right? Right?

As soon as she sat down she downed her vodka. "Great
place, yeah?" Her hair was a mess.

"Where is," he asked, "where's your
cap?"

She touched her head. "What? Are you drunk?"
She touched his arm. "Order me another drink, will you?"

He gestured to a waiter. His mind was made up. He was
going to excuse himself, pretend to go to the comfort room and then head for
the parking lot. The only thing to decide was how he was going to pay for the
drinks. Dr. Valerio fished out his wallet.

When the waiter came she touched his arm. "Ma'am,
Sir?"

He looked up from his wallet and saw his smile.
His face was a searchlight in the fog of cigarette smoke. Seven years later and
Dr. Valerio recognized the bright eyes and teeth. "She'll have a," he
said, "she'll have another vodka. A bottle, please." Should he ask
for lemon? Didn't vodka go with lemon? Or was that gin?

The waiter nodded. "Anything else, Sir?"

He didn't recognize him! No! "Do you have,"
Dr. Valerio said, "do you have any meat?"

The waiter just stared at him. Then, after a few
seconds, raised his eyebrows and said, "Crispy pata, Sir?"

They served crispy pata at bars? Where the hell was
he? "Yes, yes, that will do."

The waiter left. Dr. Valerio watched his behind wiggle
across the bar. He turned to face France. "Excuse me," he said,
standing up.

"Come back quick," she said, then added,
whispering, "or not."

Dr. Valerio nodded. He headed for the comfort room.

He heard the mutter pierce through the band's shrieks
of "Mama Mia." He kicked the comfort room's door open. And there was
the waiter, the nurse with the smile, kneeling beside the bleeding body of the
tall, thin man he thought was the bar's manager.

"Pohl!" JR said. "Don't just stand
there. Be a good apprentice and help me carry the corpse!"

3. Dr. Valerio edged his Volkswagen into the parking
garage. From the corner of his eye he saw JR, just sitting beside him, staring
straight ahead, his face an ironed blanket. No, there wasn't a dead man in his
trunk. They were in the basement of a motel, that was all. He wasn't an
accessory to a murder. He wasn't a witness to a murder. There was no murder. The
security guard was waving them in. They were going to fuck, that's all. There
was no fucking body in his trunk.

At the lobby he sat on a corner couch while JR paid
for their stay. He had been to this motel. Twice with a woman. Many times with a
man. Once, alone. He found the personnel less annoying than the average member
of the service sector. He jumped when JR gestured to him. He shoved JR aside
and ran to the elevator.

At the room he lay on the bed and stared at the
ceiling mirror. He didn't like his face. He was balding, and he had a big nose.
Big nostrils, his mother said, an evolutionary advantage, to better fight
against drowning, asthma, and assassins with pillows.

JR lay beside him. "How have you been,
Pohl?"

Dr. Valerio sniffed. "I told you in the car,
don't call me that."

JR's hand found his. "You really want to be
called Doctor?"

"It's what I am."

"It's not who you are."

"Then call me Dr. Valerio." He slapped the
hand away.

"Sure, but you have to call me Nurse Sagaray."

"You're not a nurse. And you're last name isn't
Sagaray. It's Arturo. I know. I checked."

"Always a journalist. But if you knew my last
name, why didn't you search for me? There's Google. Facebook."

"I am so a nurse. And is being a murderer
so bad if I only kill people like my sexual harasser of a boss?"

"If he committed a crime, he should have been
sued. Not shot." He felt a tongue on his cheek.

"Doctor, Doctor. I keep forgetting, you were
bed-ridden during the second and third EDSA. If justice doesn't work, you make
it work, Doctor. And I didn’t shoot him, I stabbed him."

"So what are you, a vigilante?"

JR kissed him. "A superhero, more. You'll
see."

"All I see is a murderer. And I'm not going to
see much of him anymore. I'm taking you to the police." Dr. Valerio stood
up. "Get your pants on, I'm sure they'll show you mercy if you surrender
on your own."

Dr. Valerio spat. "Your meat. All it did was mess
with my ears. And my eyes. And my nose. It's taking so much fucking effort just
to not smell your precum. How did it do this to me? What the hell was it,
anyway?"

"It was a gift. That also messed up your taste.
And now, you're going to eat--"

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Ciracio didn't reply. He knew speaking would just encourage Dr.
Gumeganal, and he didn't want to talk shop. Not right now. His favorite student
had been thrown out of a black van in front of the College of Arts and Sciences
this morning. Naked, covered with sperm--or so eyewitnesses claimed. He was at
a class when Ciracio first heard. He was so angry he smashed the broken aircon
with his chair. "It's too cold. Too cold," he told his students. Then
he left the room, a full forty five minutes before dismissal.

Tyrone was one of the Academy's brightest students, Ciracio loved
him like a son.

"Imagine, one of the most promising young men here at Plato's--violated.
What is the world coming to?"

The elevator made a ding, and some fifty seconds later
Ciracio was beside his star pupil's bed.

"Patient's status?" Dr. Gumeganal asked the computer.

"Patient suffered severe trauma to the anus and--"

"Cancel that!" Ciracio gripped the bed's leg. "Cancel
it." He found a folding chair and sat, wishing he could smash it against
his Department Head's head. "Bathala's bones, Angelo. You received the
email, didn't you?"

Dr. Gumeganal shrugged. "I just wanted to see if his condition
has changed." The man produced a comb and proceeded to groom his gray
beard.

"Sit down, please."

Dr. Gumeganal sat.

Ciracio closed his eyes and breathed a prayer. Being older than
one's superior had its benefits. Dr. Gumeganal usually followed his orders.
Usually. He opened his eyes and glanced at Tyrone's face. He looked away. He
couldn't stand to look at the bubble filled with sperm in the middle of the
young man's forehead. The criminals had used complicated splicing techniques,
the email said, and the computers have not found a way to free Tyrone's face
without disfiguring it.

Ciracio rubbed his eyes, then massaged his ears. He turned to Dr. Gumeganal.
"What did the police email you?"

"Oh, and we're on speaking terms again?"

"Just tell me what I want to know."

"What, no swearing this time?"

"Bathala's balls, Angelo!"

Dr. Gumeganal held his hands up, laughing. "If you were
teaching for the Lazaruses, you'd be fired for your blasphemy."

"Fortunately I work for Plato's, so you will tell me what I
want to know."

Comb continued caressing gray beard. "You probably know all of
this, I do believe you receive hourly updates in you vidphone?"

"National level, no local. I never thought anything wrong would
happen here in Laguna."

"Not surprising, you're a Lagunae, after all. Very well,
listen: Tyrone was kidnapped around five in the afternoon last Friday. He was
going home to his boarding house from a beercaine party.He didn't have exams this week, it seems, and
told friends he was catching a bullet train to Nueva Ecija. For some strange
reason, he walked to his boarding
house instead of hailing a--"

"What kind of beer?"

"Pascual's, if I hear right."

"And the cocaine?"

"Llanes." Dr. Gumeganal smacked his lips. "Only the
best for the best, it seems."

Ciracio rubbed his eyes. "He was walking to the boarding house,
then?"

"The van presumably swooped from on high. There were no
witnesses. At least, none has been found yet. But there are suspects."

Swooped from on high! Not even legal and already causing so much
trouble! Ciracio's eyes wandered towards Tyrone's face, then darted away.
"Who?"

"Have your national news updates ever mentioned the group
Daughters of Sodom?"

Ciracio gripped the bed's leg once more. He nodded.
"Vigilantes. They claim to be part of the Feminist Army, but the
Revolution's leaders have officially condemned their practices."

Dr. Gumeganal licked his lips. "Apparently, Tyrone and a suspected
member were involved in an Internet bar altercation about a month ago. Threats
were exchanged. This particular member--"

"Male?"

A nod. "This particular member accused Tyrone of sexual
harassment, as well as rape. His sister. Or is it the brother of a fellow
member?"

Ciracio turned away from Dr. Gumeganal. He pulled his chair closer
to the bed and stared at the bubble of sperm on Tyrone's forehead.

2. Forty two years an abortionist this coming April, Dr. Ciracio
Heruela was recruited into the Feminist Army after only a decade of secret
service. He was initiated by one of the Army's most promising Colonels, now a
General, and in public was the Academy Rector: Candy Mabuti, aka Sister Sweet.

It was to Sister Sweet's house that Ciracio walked after he left
Tyrone at the hospital, around six in the evening. He walked not just to
eliminate his anxiety, but because he believed the walkators promoted sloth and
did damage to the state of Philippine physical fitness. This belief he shared
with Tyrone. The younger man’s mistrust of busses though…

Ciracio smelt of sweat when he reached the Rector's home, which sat
on top of Golgo Hill, ten kilometers southeast of the Academy's center.
"Candy," he said to the gate cameras, "it's Sir, we need to
talk."

The gates opened.

It took Ciracio thirty more minutes to reach the door, which
thankfully was open. He headed straight to the library. He found a cup of
steaming coffee waiting for him, as well as cookies. He sat on the sofa and
surveyed the room. Candy must have added a book shelf, because the library
looked smaller. Ciracio felt hot. He took off his barong and took out a
handkerchief, wiping his face.

He took a sip of the coffee. It scalded his tongue. He took a cookie
and bit. A piece broke loose and stabbed his gums. He got up and tried to
search for the brand new shelf.

He found it. It was full of books from Canada. There was a club in
the Academy, the Organization of Mystics and Goddesses, who claimed that
Nostradamus predicted Canada would disappear from the face of the earth in the
next decade. Foolish kids. Holy Jesus triumphant, Tyrone, why couldn't you have
just joined them? Better a freak than a...

Ciracio slid a shelf door open. He took a volume out, stroked its
gold letterings.Vulgar Marxism:
Erotica from the Soviet Union. Canadians! They haven't been the same since
Quebec achieved independence!

And the Philippines? When will it achieve independence? Independence
from whom? Both sides were self-righteous, both murderous. The Feminist Army
was 60,000 members strong, but leaders claimed the Revolution in the cities was
still untenable. There was a steady supply of videos condemning the
"dictator" Bonifacio, though. He cut the book in half and read the
right page's first sentence out loud: "The colour of democracy--"

"Sir?"

Ciracio dropped the book. He turned around and saw Candy, spartan in
her jogging pants and sando. "Candy, I need information."

"It's good that we're in a library, then." She gestured to
the sofa and sat down.

Ciracio remained standing. "No jokes, Rector. A crime was
committed today, against the Academy and against the Revolution."

"Hey, did you drink my coffee?"

"What? No! Stop changing the subject, Tyrone--"

"And you took one of the cookies! Really, Ciracio, those were
for my grandson..."

Ciracio bent down, picked the book up and returned it to its place
in the shelf. Then he sat beside Candy. "How is little Pedro?"

"A typical male, I'm afraid. Just like you."

"What?"

"A crime against the Revolution? It's not even a crime against
the Academy. Do you know why your precious Tyrone was spliced?"

"Listen. Do you know what your precious Tyrone's crimes are?
He's been doing it since his second year. He takes a female, classmate,
janitress, clerk, rather democratic with his choice of victims, to the deeper
parts of the Romance Forest."

"I'm sure the sex was consensual!"

"Very much. The sex shared with him. But then after his orgasm, his partner in crime comes out of
the bushes. She--"

"She?"

"She has a camera. She's going to post the video on the
Internet if Tyrone's current victim doesn't have sex with her."

"That is just too wild to be true! And anyway, if he's been
doing it for, let's see, for more than two years now, why hasn't anyone
reported him?"

"Them. Them. He videos the females having sex too."

"And the Army authorized the Daughters of Sodom's
vigilantism?"

"No. The Army has no official relations with the Sodomites.
But, while in the past we have condemned their concept of justice, this time we
have decided that silence will better serve the causes of the Revolution."

Ciracio stood up. "You sound like Bonifacio! This is evil! This
is evil! And why was Tyrone the only one punished? This female accomplice of
his, what has the Sodomites done to her?"

"Nothing. They have this strange belief that women shouldn't be
punished, whatever the crime."

"What?"

"Fortunately, and unfortunately, for you, the Army believes
otherwise."

"What? The Army's going to punish me? Do I look like
Tyrone's female accomplice?"

Candy took a sip of the coffee, then spat in back. "Too cold, too
cold." She tapped her lips, shook her head. "Tyrone's female
accomplice is Prof. Karina Concepcion-Concepcion. Of the Biology
department."

"Holy Jesus triumphant! The one who's always lecturing about
how chips are going to be installed in our brains?"

"Yes."

"What are you going to do about her?"

"I'm not going to do anything about her."

"I thought the Army believed in punishing females?"

"The Army believes in punishing criminals, males or
females."

"Then how come you're not going to do anything about her?"

"Because you're going to do something about her."

"What?"

Candy stood up and reached under the back of her jogging pants. She
produced a pistol. "Justice. The Army has tasked you with the
assassination of a rapist. Do you accept?" She pointed the pistol at him.

"A female rapist?"

"Do you accept?"

Dr. Ciracio Heruela took the walkator on his way back to the
Academy's center. He left the Rector swimming in a pool of her own blood.

3. "Ciracio."

"Karina."

"Take off those infernal sunglasses. It's almost midnight.
People are going to notice."

Ciracio took his sunglasses off.

"You've been crying."

"Are you a rapist?"

"You invited me to Bai for this? If you'll excuse me, I think
I'll join," she pointed with her snout, "them."

"Sit down, Karina." Ciracio put his sunglasses back on. He
knew the customers of Bai's Floating Sinigang Palace were too busy with their
own loves and families to notice him. Plus, he hated it when others people saw
his eyes in a less than pristine state. "Answer my question."

"No, Ciracio, I'm not rapist."

"Then you and I are leaving Laguna tonight. The Sodomites and
the Army, or maybe just the Army, are looking to have you assassinated. They’re
connecting you to the crimes of Tyrone Decena."

"Holy Jesus triumphant."

"I know." He took a sip of his sinigang. "I had to
kill Candy Mabuti."

"Oh! Please! They probably know who we really are!" Karina
produced sunglasses from her bag and put them on. "Why did you have to
bring me to Bai? Let's get the hell out of here now! The government doesn't pay
me enough for this crap!" She stood up.

"Wait, wait. We need to stay in Laguna for a few more
hours."

"What?"

"You are no rapist, and neither is Tyrone. They framed him, so
I would kill you. I managed to harvest Candy's brain before it shut down. I
know who spliced Tyrone."

"This is no time for petty revenge Ciracio."

"I'm going to do this with or without you Karina."

She sat down. "Okay. All right. Holy, holy, holy, you are one
strange double agent." She took a sip of her sinigang. "If we're
going to do this, I need all the information you have."

Ciracio nodded. He produced a computer from his barong.

4. The lights came alive. Ciracio sat behind Dr. Gumeganal's desk.
He smiled at the younger man's lift of an eyebrow. "Sit down, Angelo. In
the name of Bathala, sit down."

"I can't."

"Don't be stupid."

"I can't sit. You're on my seat."

"Very well." He stood up, walking up to Dr. Gumeganal's
book shelf.

"Bathala's beard! Who gave you permission to take my
books?"

"What?"

"This!" He stroked the spine of Candy Mabuti's Vulgar
Marxism. "You took it from my shelf! You have to ask for these
things!"

Ciracio slid the shelf door open."That's not yours. That's mine." He took out Dr. Gumeganal's
copy of Vulgar Marxism, waving it with his left hand. "See?"

"Praise be Bathala! Forgive my rudeness, Ciracio. I am
protective of my books, as I'm sure you are too. I didn't mean to accuse you of
thievery."

"Why do you have a copy of this thing anyway?''

"Well, I am the adviser of OMG, after all. Huge, yes?" He
opened Candy's book, flipped through the first pages, then read: "'I am
totally against prostitution. Sex should be free!'" He closed the book.
"You can't beat the Canadian sense of humor!"

Ciracio threw the book in his left hand at Dr. Gumeganal, who caught
it but dropped it. While his department head was under the desk, Ciracio walked
over and took the book he stole from the Rector. He turned to the middle of Vulgar
Marxism. When Dr. Gumeganal's head popped up again, Ciracio held Candy's
pistol in his right hand.

"Dr. Heruela, is this some sort of a joke?"

Ciracio shot Dr. Gumeganal in the mouth. He put the pistol on his
superior's table, Candy's book as well. He took off his barong and wiped the
blood off his face. He checked his hair in the mirror beside the book shelf,
combed his moustache with his fingers and left. Outside the Department Head's
office was Dairy at her desk. She had a pin that said 'No to machine clerks' on
her collar. Loony luddite.

"Going home now?"

"Bathala bless that man, Dairy, he's approved my leave. He's
working on the papers right now, to forward to the Rector. He said give him
some thirty minutes then go in with some coffee and cookies."

"Will do, will do. Goodbye then, and congratulations."

"Thanks." The department's doors slid open, and Ciracio
walked to the elevator. "Ground floor," he told the computer. At the
College of Art and Sciences' parking lot he found Karina waiting in a red
Volkswagen. "I have to commend you for your subtlety."

She opened the door for him. "Shut up. I told you the
government doesn't pay me enough. But when the floaters become legal next year,
you know who's going to demand a raise."

"Let's go Professor Concepcion."

"That's Professor Concepcion-Concepcion to you."

Ciracio got in the car. He produced a Chicochoco bar from his
pockets. "You allow food, right?"

"In the name of Bathala, just shut up. Holy Jesus triumphant, I
hope they place me in a Lazarus school and I never get to see you again."

The Volkswagen was no floater, but it was fast. It took them just five
minutes from Los Baños to Calamba, and only two minutes from Calamba to the
South Luzon Expressway. A black cat crossed the road and Karina hit the brakes.

Ciracio banged his head on the dashboard and dropped his chocolate.

The Volkswagen sped on and he bent to pick the Chicochoco bar up.

Underneath his seat he found another copy of Vulgar Marxism.
"How many people," he said, still bent, "could be interested in
erotica from the Soviet Union?"

"Sit up, Dr. Heruela."

They were cruising straight now. Karina had turned the automatic
driving controls on. Instead of the steering wheel she held a pistol in her
hands.

Ciracio bit his upper lip. "Double agent too?"

"No. Just a government employee tired of all this crap."

"Why a pistol? Why not use laser? It’d me much a much cleaner
kill."

"As you might have gathered from Candy’s speech, you old fool,
I like doing things dirty."